


A quiet evening at the Yawning Portal

by Sylvantess



Series: Neverwinter Nights - A Tale of a Hero [2]
Category: Hordes of the Underdark, Neverwinter Nights
Genre: Gen, POV First Person, Shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-16
Updated: 2020-09-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:22:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26494078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sylvantess/pseuds/Sylvantess
Summary: Some of Katarsi and Deekin banter.
Series: Neverwinter Nights - A Tale of a Hero [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1926187
Kudos: 4





	A quiet evening at the Yawning Portal

> „Death is the only rest for a true warrior. “
> 
> Whoever had started proclaiming this line and spreading it across Faerun like plague, never actually experienced death and lived to tell.
> 
> Allegedly, life represents a chain of endless fights that lead to some higher goal. In the end, it all comes down to fame and fortune, along with conquering oneself or being blindly loyal to a god and faith. It’s all about this „higher goal” that charms everyone like Domination spell. Consequentially, famous adventurers who had retired are always mentioned with a certain belittling tone.
> 
> „What, Randal the Red isn’t dead? “ „Well, he might as well be. He’s a farmer now, married with children and all.“ „Bah. And to think that I’d admired him... _I’ll_ meet my last days gloriously! I shall be remembered for my valor!“
> 
> While I was a young adventurer still wet behind the ears, I often went into debates with supporters of said philosophy, occasionally even engaging in bloody fights. To this day, I could never support the theory of being a dumb grunt whose sole purpose is dying in a pool of blood and calling it glory.
> 
> Saying that I fight for a good cause, as in saving people from some misfortune for the sake of general prosperity, would be a lie. On the other hand, I’m not inclined to help a villain, no matter the reward. I’ve seen my share of evil and suffering, and this experience had helped me form what I believe is a decent set of values. A part of me is vying to redeem my weakness from the time when I was supposed to help my loved ones, but instead witnessed their demise; it’s a bad example, but it still helped my determination to become stronger. All in all, I don’t really have a defined goal. I fight because nothing else sustains me, and I’ll protect others from various kinds of evil because my conscience demands it. The amount of payment, whether it’s gold or other items of value, was never important. My lifestyle is nomadic, my belongings are basic and I prefer it that way. If someone gave me a house and a piece of land in exchange for my services, I’d just sell everything and move on.
> 
> I've been stationed in some places for longer periods of time in the past, in a work-related setup. Baldur’s Gate had claimed around three decades of my youth, where I had honed my skills and talents both in fighting prowess and the discipline of mind. It was a means to an end; Faerun is a land of constant turmoil and survival is what matters the most. After my initial ordeal – which to this day I’m not sure how I managed to overcome – it was clear that I absolutely had to learn to protect myself. Adventurers’ guilds are numerous throughout Faerun, and I had sought the one where the guild master’s modality is based on the will to train others and a certain work ethic. I loathed the thought of joining some random gang of thugs, nor could I become a cold assassin whose mark is of no importance as long as there’s plenty of gold involved. In Baldur’s Gate I had found what I’ve been looking for: a wise teacher who was never easy on me, acceptance from other adventurers and plenty of space to improve myself. Now as I look back, I realize that the guild was akin to family, but at the time when I joined, my heart was already scorched enough to refuse anyone in. The grueling art of survival was everything, and it still is.
> 
> One would think that a century and a half is a long time span, but for me it had passed far too fast. I have many memories, some cherished and some far less so, all neatly packed in my archive of experiences, and I guess that the elven half of me is reducing the mental fatigue which would probably be overwhelming for a human. And there is also the matter of physical immutability; I hadn’t changed significantly since I was around thirty, except for the length of my hair and the muscular built, which I suppose is as toned as it can get for a half-elven female. We aren’t all that different from pure elves, save for somewhat stronger physique and a few centuries less in the natural lifespan – which is not much of a loss in comparison to an elven non-mage maximum of nine hundred years. I’m not sure that I’d _want_ to live that long. Sure, at the end of my days, if by some miracle I get to die from old age, I’d look like a human in their forties, while my pure kin retain their twenties shape forever. From my point of view, it’s nothing to complain about.
> 
> Unlike other elves and half-elves I had met, I prefer the human civilization. I revel in their bustle and tumultuous nature; after all, it was a significant factor in shaping the world of Toril ever since the creation. They decay faster, but their lives are somehow richer, immersed in constant change that leaves no room for overly deep self-contemplation which elves excel at. Elves may see the world more clearly for what it is because of their steady nature, but as my decades had passed, I saw that it’s also a form of detachment, preventing them from really _living_. I like being around humans, I like having mixed opinions about them, I like that they’re making me _feel._ Maybe I’m like that because of my dual origin... or maybe I’m just trying to fill the inner void that is ever threatening to consume

“Deekin!”

He turned to look at me after casually shoving a half-peeled baked potato in his mouth.

“Yuffh?”

“What the fuck is this?”, I waved the scribbled parchment in question.

He stopped chewing for a moment, looking at me all puzzled.

“Ift’sh dhee’d shfory of—“, he paused to chew fervently, then audibly swallowed. “Ooh, that was a big one.” Then he burped. “Okays. It be the story of you Boss, the new one. How’s you doesn’t knows that? Deekin be very specific about… Oh. Deekin still didn’t think of a headline. You gots any ideas, Boss?”

I did my best to stare daggers at him. “You’re _not_ continuing this horrid philosophical diarrhea.”

He blinked several times, crestfallen. “But, but, Deekin was trying _real_ hard to relate Bosses great personality!”

I sighed. “Well, you have failed. I mean, I _hope_ you did. And my personality isn’t great. This, however”, I waved the parchment again, “makes it even worse. Why do you insist on portraying me as some cynical holier-than-thou bitch?!?”

He made that expression he makes every time he tries to solve the mystery of existence. It took me about a year to overcome bursting into laughter at the sight.

“Deekin pretty sure that he doesn’t port…rayings Boss with any holy canine ancestry. That just be ridiculous.”

Another profound pause.

“What does ‘cynical’ means?”

I just couldn't. My upper body slumped onto the bed on the side. “Corellon preserve me.”

“Ooh! Deekin wanted to write about Booses religious beliefs next.”

“How about we just stick to the adventure and completely overlook my personality?”

“That be big hole in the plot, Boss”, he concluded sagely and proceeded to pick up another baked potato. And again, failed to peel it properly, given he was adamant about using his claws for the job.

**Author's Note:**

> Continue? Not continue?


End file.
